


November, 2005

by ussnicole



Series: Welcome to Suburbia [7]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alcoholism, Attempted Suicide, Child Abuse, Depression, Drug Use, Family Dynamics, Gen, Runaway, Songfic, Suburbia, Suicidal Thoughts, The (After) Life of the Party, Underage Drinking, What A Catch Donnie, Young & Menace, dysfunction, the kids aren't alright
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 11:47:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12630387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ussnicole/pseuds/ussnicole
Summary: Dysfunction in Suburbia.Pete never pictured life coming out this way.





	1. The (After) Life of the Party

Pete lay sprawled across his bed, reading the latest Kerrang! magazine. His small room was messy, clothes strewn about, but the shelves and desk in the corner were empty of belongings. A backpack was bulging in the corner, more clothes and various toiletries poking out of the overstuffed pockets. The walls were bare, and there were holes in the drywall where fists had missed their human target.

Flipping idly through the last few pages of his magazine, Pete tossed it aside and flopped back onto the pillows, picking at a scab on his left elbow (skinned when he was shoved down the stairs). He had several bandages on his knuckles (scraped on the ground when he was thrown out of the house) and a nasty cut on his lip (split when he hadn’t ducked a punch quick enough), and various scars in different stages of the healing process littered his skin. There were three stitches in a gash on his forehead (cracked against the counter in the kitchen) and two more in his forearm (stabbed with a pair of scissors).

All of a sudden, the front door slammed, sending Pete shooting for the backpack. He quickly shoved everything further into it, zipping it halfway and then slinging it over his shoulder. Wrenching his window open, Pete clambered out onto the awning over the back porch and then jumped down to the backyard. The grass cushioned his landing and he rolled to avoid breaking his ankles and then made sure he had left the ladder tucked behind the bushes.

“PETER,” the house yelled. Pete was long gone. It had rained recently and the streets were wet and cold, his steps echoing in the quiet. It was just past nine, already dark. The street lamps flickered on and off as Pete followed Daly Drive to Sebring Street. Wandering into the nicer neighborhood closer to the ocean and away from the freeway, Pete stashed his bag in some bushes and shoved his hands into his pockets. Without a sweatshirt he shivered and ducked his head, walking down the street aimlessly.

A large house on the corner of the street was lit up completely against the dark night, loud music pulsing from it and kids spilling out into the front yard. They laughed raucously, sloshing drinks out of red solo cups and yelling loudly to one another. Pete stood at the edge of the grass for a minute and then veered onto the path up to the door, dodging a drunk kid and getting spattered with beer in the process. Slinking through the door and avoiding cups thrust his way as he maneuvered through the party, Pete perched on the arm of a couch and watched the people coming and going, eyes stopping and staying on a girl with no drink in her hand. She swayed to the music, laughing and talking to another girl, and she stood out as one of the prettiest people at the party.

“Easy there, tiger,” a boy laughed, slinging his arm around Pete’s shoulder and following his gaze to the girl. “You don’t stand a chance with Melissa.”

“Shut up, Joe,” Pete retorted, shrugging the arm off his shoulder and pushing his fried away. “I don’t even like her, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Joe just snorted and then froze, grabbing Pete’s arm.

“Dude.”

“What, Joe, for fuck’s – oh,” Pete stopped, noticing what Joe had already noticed. Three boys walked into the room and looked around, gazes landing on Pete and Joe. “Shit.”

“I hope you came ready to fight,” Joe yelled into Pete’s ear, and then they stood. Ten minutes later, Pete and Joe were sitting on the curb in front of the house, Joe holding a cold beer can to his temple and Pete shoving a tissue unceremoniously up his nose.

“She’s not that pretty anyway,” Pete lamented, wincing as his bruised nose throbbed. By the way it kept bleeding, he was pretty sure it was broken. To make matters worse, she came out onto the front porch of the house on the arm of one of the other boys. Pete scoffed in disgust as they began to make out. Joe just shook his head and pulled Pete to his feet, and the two of them took off down the street (quick author note to say how disgusting I feel about how much that last sentence rhymed I’M SORRY).

“How are things at home?” Joe asked as they walked, cracking open the beer and taking a long swig. He offered the can to Pete, but Pete waved it off. His nose was still bleeding, but he had given up on the tissue and smeared the blood away when it reached his lip.

“Shitty,” Pete shrugged, grabbing his backpack from its hiding place and holding it up as an answer. Joe shook his head, drinking another gulp of beer before grabbing Pete’s arm and pulling him down the street.

“You can crash at my place then.”

Back at Joe’s house, Pete sat on the couch in the silence of the house. It was larger than his own, and more habitable, like people actually lived there instead of spent nights in the rooms and then left during the day. Pete was pretty sure a house was not a home unless there were more than three dishes in the cupboards, unless there was actually food in the fridge and the electricity was paid for. Sitting there, surrounded by a scene that should have been familiar but never was and never would be, Pete shut his eyes tightly and wished that he was anyone but himself. It was times like this, he knew, in the middle of the night, that his mind wandered places it shouldn’t. He was desperate, though, and the sweet song of death was only ever audible to the desperate ones.

Pete was gone in the morning, only a few drops of blood on the hardwood floors betraying that he had been there at all.


	2. What a Catch, Donnie

At school the next day, Pete slumped into his seat in the back of his English class right before the bell rang. His friend Andy made sure the teacher was still busy with papers at the front of the classroom before leaning over and poking Pete in the shoulder – Pete had buried his head in his arms. When he looked up at Andy, Pete had dried blood from his nose to his chin and a black eye.

“Jesus Christ,” Andy said.

“Nope, just me,” Pete quipped tiredly, rubbing his nose and sending flakes of the blood raining down to his desk. “Wow, that’s gross.”

“This is getting kind of ridiculous,” Andy told him, frowning as Pete tried to shrug and winced in pain. “You need to get away from your family.”

“Oh, this wasn’t them this time actually,” Pete whispered; the teacher had begun to talk about the next book. “This was James and his asshole friends. I got out of my house fast enough last night.”

“Still,” came Andy’s reply, spoken quickly before he hid behind his book, “you need to get away from them. They’re gonna kill you if James doesn’t get to you first.”

Pete managed to make it through three periods to lunch, and then he convinced his friend Patrick to distract the teacher in charge of watching the parking lot and snuck off campus. His original plan was to kick it around town until night and then find someone else’s couch to crash on, but halfway down the street he collapsed. Ten minutes later, he awoke in the back of a cop car with an officer patiently asking him where his house was. Pete was so out of it that he rattled off the address without a second thought and then sat back, enduring a talk on how getting in fights at school is a bad idea. Pete rolled his eyes slightly and did the math – it was Friday, which meant that his parents would be home early. Pete just crossed his fingers and hoped they weren’t too early.

Just his luck, both beat up cars were in the driveway. Pete tried to thank the officer and put on a brave face, but the man insisted on walking him up to the door.

“I’d like to have a word with your parents, son,” he said. It was the first time anyone had ever called him that.

Pete sighed in resignation as the man followed him up the cracked walk. There was a stain on the step up to the porch where Pete had cracked his head when he was eleven, thrown out the front door unceremoniously. He had learned to cushion his falls with his arms by now, but the bloodstain remained as a reminder. The cop rang the doorbell and stepped back, bouncing on the balls of his feet and whistling through his teeth. Pete bitterly kicked at the door jam, completely positive where this would lead.

The door swung open to reveal an unpleasant man with a beer in his hand. Pete peered around him to the clock on the kitchen wall; it was, what, just past noon? He was starting earlier than normal. Noticing the officer, Pete’s father plastered on a false smile and beamed at the man.

“Hi officer, what can I do for you? Thank you for bringing Peter home,” he simpered, grabbing Pete roughly and giving him an awkward side hug. His grip tightened painfully on Pete’s arm and Pete grimaced, pretending to smile.

“I just wanted to make sure he got home alright, sir. He was out cold on the sidewalk, and it seems he’s been fighting at school. He shouldn’t be missing class, but he obviously can’t go back to school like this,” the officer told him, smiling warmly at the apparent display of fatherly affection. “I know my boy gets in fights all the time. Those teenagers, you know? They’re good kids though.” Mr. Wentz laughed loudly, nodding earnestly and shaking the cop’s hand.

“That’s Pete,” he responded, shaking Pete slightly, “always getting himself into trouble. Thank you again, officer, for all your troubles. I’ll make sure it won’t happen again.” With those words, Pete’s father closed the door and then turned to his son. “The prodigal son returns,” he sneered, draining what was left of his beer and then tossing the bottle down. A cockroach, startled by the sudden movement, scampered along the wall and disappeared into the next room.

“Dad…” Pete began, but was cut off by a nasty left hook to his temple. Reeling from the hit, Pete fell to his hands and knees and tried to crawl away. He was stopped by a kick in the ribs which sent him sprawling, curling into a ball on the worn carpet of the entryway. The onslaught only ended when Mr. Wentz grabbed Pete by the back of his shirt and tossed him out of the door. Already out of it, Pete forgot to cushion himself and ended up cracking his head against the step again, and a trickle of blood dripped into his eye from his hair line.

Stumbling down the street, Pete managed to find himself at Patrick’s house right as Patrick was arriving. His friend took one look at him and rushed Pete inside where he proceeded to clean up his wounds, all the while ranting about how terrible Pete’s parents were. Pete waved him off once all the major bleeding had stopped, mumbling a “thank you” before staggering out the door to find Joe and some trouble to keep his mind off of anything.

Walking alone did nothing to keep his mind blank. Every car going by posed a chance to end it all, to step out into the street and let his body collide with the machine. If he walked far enough, he could make it out to the overpass that went over the bay, and he could jump to his death there. Being anywhere but Suburbia sounded perfect, and since he had no money or way to leave, death seemed like the best answer. Right before he took the turn to Parkway Drive, Joe ran up and stopped him.

“Dude! You bailed on me! I had to suffer through math by my – whoa, Pete, you look like shit. Well, I mean, more like shit. You didn’t look so hot this morning either,” Joe rambled, talking a mile a minute. Pete rolled his eyes but secretly he was glad to see his friend. Joe was always running at one hundred and ten percent, and being around him made Pete’s head blissfully clear. Of course, they were either drinking or fighting other people whenever they were together, so there wasn’t much room for self pity _or_ self loathing.

All Pete knew was that he did not want to become anything like his father; even so, he could tell he was becoming just that. Between the cheap beer and picking fights just for the sake of fighting, he was more and more like the man he hated every day.


	3. The Kids Aren't Alright

That night, long after the fights had ended and the beer had run out, Pete lay sprawled on Joe’s couch for the second night in a row. He picked at a fresh scar on his arm idly, humming a Blink 182 song under his breath. Lost in thought, Pete’s mind wandered until he heard the sound of a key in the front door. Forgetting where he was, he flew into a blind panic and raced to the back of the house, hastily opening a window and clambering out of it. He didn’t stop running until he hit the underpass where 12th Street turned to East 12th. Sinking to his knees on the sidewalk Pete sobbed, clutching at his arms in the cold and squeezing his eyes shut.

When Pete had cried as much as he could, he stood and ran a hand down his face, smearing the tears. He let out a long breath he didn’t know he was holding, watching the air billow out from his mouth in the light of the flickering street lamp. Pete had hardly noticed when he had first run out to the streets, but it was raining and it steadily picked up to a heavy downpour. He walked to the edge of the underpass, standing just under the safety of the freeway to watch the rain come down in sheets.

Huddling on the curb, Pete kicked at a beer bottle in the gutter and dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands. The pain just made him angry, and he stood abruptly, grabbing the bottle and smashing it against the sidewalk. It shattered partly, leaving sharp jagged edges and a mess on the ground. Suddenly subdued, Pete sat back down and ran his hands across the broken glass until the tips of his fingers were like ribbons, dripping blood and stinging against the slicing edge. He moved the bottle up to his wrist but paused, and then threw it down in disgust. He watched in fascination as the blood dripped from his hands, spattering in the rain water rushing through the gutter and hitting the toe of his beat up Converse.

When Pete woke up the next morning, he was slumped over on the curb and his fingers were still bleeding. He wrapped them in the hem of his shirt and just started walking.


	4. Young And Menace

Pete only made it as far as the alleyway by the intersection of Thames Street and South Broadway before passing out again, and when he awoke his shirt was soaked in blood and he was slightly light headed. Pete had lost track of how many times he had woken up in his shoes, and this was just another one.

He had also lost track of what had happened the day before and he inspected his new bruises and scrapes and scratches with mild interest. He could not really press any of the bruises, which was unfortunate to him because what else were they good for? But his shredded fingers prevented him, and he tucked them back in his bloody shirt. A few of the deeper cuts were still oozing blood and he examined them until they made him woozy and he had to take a few deep breaths to keep from passing out again.

He stumbled down Thames Street, bumping into people and earning a few “watch where you’re going!”s from passing pedestrians. By this point, Pete hadn’t eaten in – how long had it been? – and he was slightly delirious. He put his head down on Thames and when he next looked up he had somehow made it to Lime Street. Disoriented, he spun around and forgot where he had come from.

He passed out after spinning one more time, and when he woke up for the third time that day, he was in a hospital bed. Nurses came in to check on him periodically, and a serious doctor with dark hair that seemed to be receding prematurely came in to do a psych assessment.

When his father came to visit, he ripped the IV out of his arm and was gone before anyone noticed.


End file.
